Overbite (4 page)

Chapter Five

E
verything was a disaster.

Now, in one night, Meena had not only slain one ex-boyfriend who’d turned out to be a vampire, but she had another one in her bed.

She couldn’t imagine how things could possibly get worse, unless her brother walked into the apartment, found Lucien Antonescu there, and called Alaric Wulf, who would undoubtedly launch an all-out military assault on the place that would include smoke grenades and possibly tear gas.

But she’d already phoned Jon and learned that he was working his normal Friday-night shift at the Beanery, where he’d found employment as a barista. He wasn’t planning to be home until after eleven.

This gave Meena exactly one hour to get Lucien out of the apartment.

The question was, how was she going to do this?

She had no idea what was wrong with Lucien. But his announcing that he was still in love with her certainly hadn’t made things any better. The admission had, in fact, only seemed to cause him to grow weaker. She’d had to half support him as she staggered the rest of the way to her building.

She hadn’t wanted to bring him inside. But he seemed so ill, she didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t leave him outside, even though this was what he asked of her.

But that was ludicrous. He’d already admitted he was so weak, he couldn’t maintain his glamour, or whatever it was, much longer. She certainly wasn’t going to abandon him in this condition, defenseless. She wasn’t just concerned about whoever—or whatever—had been following them, but about
anyone
who might happen to stumble across him. Alaric Wulf, for instance. True, Alaric lived in a completely different neighborhood, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

Fortunately, her building had an elevator, even though it was ancient, barely had room for two people and a laundry basket, and was so slow it was usually simpler to take the stairs. She was able to prop Lucien up inside, though, and get him safely to her floor.

From there things got more complicated. She’d grown so used to them, she’d forgotten the radical lengths to which she and the Palatine had gone to vampire-proof the apartment. There was a crucifix hanging over every window and doorway. Strands of garlic hung across her bed. Father Bernard, who led the parish of the Shrine of St. Clare’s, had blessed the place when she’d moved in, sprinkling every corner of it with holy water. Sister Gertrude had lately taken to dropping by with patron-saint devotional candles.

Lucien had groaned upon entering.

“It’s not
that
bad,” Meena had said defensively.

“That’s your opinion,” he replied.

But then there was her dog. Even before she’d known they existed, Meena had had a secret weapon in the fight against vampires. Because somehow she’d managed to pick the one Pomeranian mix in the entire Manhattan animal-shelter system that was particularly sensitive to—and infuriated by—the scent of the undead. Or perhaps the dog had picked her. One of them, in any case, had picked the other, maybe with some idea of what the future held in store.

Jack Bauer—so named because his anxiety level was exceeded only by his determination to save the world from all evil—leaped from his basket the minute Lucien entered the apartment, curled back his lips, and began to snarl as if the Apocalypse were occurring in the living room right in front of him.

Which was why Meena had had to pick him up and lock him in the bathroom, with a bowl of water and his favorite chew toy. He immediately began to whimper, sad to be missing out on all the fun.

When she returned to her bedroom, where Lucien had retreated to escape the vicious mini-assault, she saw that he had collapsed onto her light blue duvet. He had one arm over his eyes to shield them from the garlic overhead. The rest of her walls—also light blue—were bare, because Meena had been so busy, she still had not gotten around to decorating, beyond what Sister Gertrude had dropped by and the apartment’s owner had chosen, which was the minimum of furnishings.

She took a deep breath and sank down onto the bed beside him. The flouncy red skirt of her dress, now looking a little worse for wear after her battle with David, swirled out around them both.

“Lucien, you’ve
got
to tell me. What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you hurt? Is there anything I can bring you?”

It was a stupid question. She didn’t have any spare pints of blood lying around the apartment. And she wasn’t about to offer up her own neck.

But she didn’t have the slightest idea what else to say.

“I don’t believe so,” he said. He lowered his arm. His dark-eyed gaze latched onto hers, and he managed another one of those heart-wrenching smiles. “Being this close to you again is enough. For now. Although I’ll admit in my weaker moments I question the wisdom of being in love with a woman who chooses to work for an organization intent on exterminating my people. Believe me, if I could, I would prefer not to be.”

She felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She’d forgotten what it was like to have a man say that he loved her.

Oh, sure, guys occasionally indicated that they wanted to sleep with her. And sometimes—like with David—it even seemed like the relationship might actually go somewhere.

But it never did. Take her relationship with Alaric Wulf. He had kissed her—quite passionately—once.

But he had been semiconscious from blood loss at the time. Since then, he had not tried to kiss her again. He had, in fact, been seriously standoffish, except for asking her to dinner once,
in his apartment
.

Which had so obviously been an invitation for casual sex, Meena had been insulted. She’d thought she’d meant a little more to him than
that
. He could get
that
from any silly girl he met at any nightclub in Manhattan. If he wasn’t going to do anything to indicate that she meant something more to him than that, she wasn’t going to bother with him.

On the other hand, it
was
Alaric Wulf who’d more or less raised himself. So it was possible he hadn’t known any better. Instead of telling him to go to hell, she’d just politely refused the invitation.

But with Lucien, everything was different. Because Lucien had always gotten the love thing down perfectly.

True, he had no soul. True, he was the five-hundred-year-old son of one of the most prolific serial killers in history, who had made an unholy pact with Satan in order to achieve immortality, and so needed to consume human blood to survive.

And true, their relationship had gone from amazing to unmitigated disaster in record time because he’d kept biting her. And then the members of his family kept trying to do the same. And now vampires all over the world seemed to think of Meena’s blood as a refreshing pick-me-up, like Dr Pepper.

Still. He’d never stopped loving her.

“I really don’t think,” Meena said, aware that the lighting in the room was far too low—it could almost have been called romantic—because she had no overhead light, just a small bedside lamp, “this is the time or place to be talking about this.” Even though, truthfully, she never wanted to stop talking about it. “There’s obviously something really wrong with you. I think you should tell me what it is so I can try to help you.”

But Lucien just shook his head.

“I told you I would love you until the end of time,” he said, the corners of that irresistible mouth of his turned up. But not like he actually thought the situation was funny. More like he was sad . . . but in an amused way. “Coming from someone who, in all likelihood, will live until then, those aren’t words to be spoken lightly. I’ve been in love with you ever since that horrible dinner party at my cousin’s apartment, and we went to the Metropolitan Museum afterward, and you showed me the painting you love, the one of Joan of Arc. You look even more like her now, with your hair like that. Although I’m not entirely sure what color that’s supposed to be . . .”

She reached up instinctively to tug on a lock of her hair. Her best friend, Leisha, the highest-paid stylist at the B.A.O. (By Appointment Only) Salon, had given her permission to grow out her pixie cut, on the condition that Leisha be allowed to experiment with color. Meena now had different-colored hair each month.

But underneath it, she was still the exact same person she’d been the day she’d met Lucien.

She knew that no one else believed he could possibly have changed his colors as easily.

No one but her. Because she’d always been able to see his true colors.

“You’re not like any other woman I’ve ever met,” he was saying, his gaze intent on hers. “I didn’t think you did, but you seemed really to mean it when you said you were going to save mankind from creatures like myself. Nothing was going to stand in your way. And nothing has. You’re amazing. You know that, don’t you?”

Amazing?
She
was amazing? No one had ever called her amazing before. Weird, yes. A flake, often. Crazy, lots of times.

But never amazing. She couldn’t believe Lucien even remembered that conversation at the museum in front of the Joan of Arc painting . . . her favorite painting, because Joan of Arc, like her, made predictions that at first no one believed. But soon she convinced enough people that she was telling the truth that she was given an audience with the king, and eventually her own army to command.

Still, this was hardly the kind of discussion you’d expect someone who’d been around for half a millennium to remember.

But he had.

Lucien seemed to realize she’d been rendered speechless by his revelation, and laid a hand over hers.

“You have every reason to despise me,” he said. He was still smiling ruefully to himself. “As you’ve so aptly pointed out, I didn’t just endanger your life—and the lives of all the people you love—when I came into it, I ruined it. Not a moment goes by that I’m not still fully aware of this fact. More than anything in this world, I wish I could take that back—even more than I wish I could bring back the lives my father and half brother took before they were eventually stopped. But I can’t. And the last thing I want to do now is put you in jeopardy again. But I feel like I already have. So all I can do instead is take this opportunity to make sure you know how I feel . . .” The strong hand tightened over hers. “How I’ll always feel. Not that I expect you to feel the same way, or that I have any hope at all that it will make a difference.”

“Lucien . . . ”

If she could have thrown herself into his arms and started kissing him wildly then and there, she would have.

If she could have said, “I love you, too,” forgotten all about the vampire thing—the fact that he was dead and she was alive and she had family and friends and, oh yes, an entire species who was depending on her—she would have.

But she couldn’t.

Because considering his weakness—and what she’d been dreaming lately—it seemed more vital than ever that one of them, at least, keep their head.

“Lucien,” she said again. “Remember that night we were in the museum, and you showed me the woodcut of the castle where you grew up, and told me about your mother?”

His grip on her hand loosened slightly.

“I remember,” he said, flinching a little. “But it’s hardly a good idea to bring up a man’s mother at moments like this, Meena . . .”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But it can’t be helped. You told me she was your father’s first wife, and that she was very beautiful and innocent, and that he loved her very much. You said after her death, people used to whisper that she might have been an angel . . .”

Now he pulled his hand from hers entirely.

“And now
definitely,
” he said, sitting up, “isn’t the time to be bringing up angels.” He threw a speculative glance at the window, which was nailed shut, and had the largest crucifix of all hanging over it. “Although I could see how it might be difficult for you not to around here.”

“Lucien, you have to listen to this,” Meena said urgently. “I keep having this dream. It’s been the same one every night. And I think it’s about you and your mother. I don’t know who else it could be. It takes place in that castle in the woodcut. I went online to research where you grew up—Poenari Castle—and it looks like the same place. In the dream, this woman is sitting on a seat by a window, reading a book with a little boy. The little boy looks exactly like you, and so does the woman. She has long black hair and big dark eyes and is wearing a blue dress—”

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.” Lucien’s voice was curt. “So you keep having this dream. So what? I thought your gift was that you could see into the future, not the past.”

“It is,” Meena said, a little hurt by his harsh tone. “I mean, it was. It always has been. But lately, I don’t know. I think it’s been changing. Getting stronger, or something. Because, Lucien, in this dream, the part from this book that the woman is reading to this little boy—who I think is you—is about good and evil. I don’t know how I can understand what she’s saying, because she’s speaking in a language I’ve never heard before. But somehow I can. She’s talking about how none of us is completely good or completely evil, and
all
of God’s creatures—she stresses this part,
all
of them—have the ability to choose. How evil can’t exist without good, and how even some of God’s angels—”

Lucien started to get up from the bed, clearly eager to get away from her.

Only he couldn’t, because whatever was wrong with him, it seemed to knock him back, and off his feet. He sank down again onto the mattress, kneading his forehead and muttering a curse.

“Lucien.” Meena crawled toward him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. “What? What is it? What is the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”
He barked the word with such surprising savagery, she dropped her hands.

Now, finally, she felt afraid.

Of him.

What had she done? What had she said? She’d thought he’d be glad to hear about her dream. It wasn’t a sad dream. To her, it was a hopeful dream . . . even if no one else in the Palatine agreed with her that it meant demons had within them the capacity to be good.